


26 Days of Bagginshield

by airebellah



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Khuzdul, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Shire, Angst, Angst and Humor, Awkward Flirting, Bad Flirting, Bagginshield alphabet, Battle of Five Armies - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bilbo is So Done, Canonical Character Death, Consort Bilbo Baggins, Cultural Differences, Developing Relationship, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarves in the Shire, Ear Kink, Established Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Grief/Mourning, Hobbit Culture, Khuzdul, King Thorin, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Pre-Slash, Protective Thorin, Slash, The Shire, Thorin Feels, Thorin Is an Idiot, Thorin Oakenshield Is a Dork, Thorin is a Softie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-24 07:29:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 16,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4910566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airebellah/pseuds/airebellah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bagginshield Alphabet has started this month on tumblr. One letter of the alphabet as a prompt for each day, until the 26th! Here is a collection of my prompt fills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Appetite

While Hobbits were by no means a well-known race, preferring to stay within their own borders, some things were known about them. Such as their peaceful nature and inclination for comfort, be it through plenty food and ale, or a simple life.

However, there was one detail that outsiders did not know about the Gentlefolk: their need for seven meals a day. Well, perhaps seven meals were not completely required – just always indulged in – but it would be utterly preposterous for a Shireling to eat less than five.

Conversely, Dwarves had a natural appetite for three meals a day, and were accustomed to less during travel or in times of hardship. Now Bilbo had never faced either of these situations before the quest for Erebor; at most he had taken a few walking holidays, and he always made sure to pack well for those. Bilbo had been quite shocked to find that the Dwarves, despite their stocky builds, ate so little. He had meant to speak up – truly, he had. But he found himself alienated from the rest of the Company, constantly teased for his delicate bearing and strict propriety. Eventually, the Hobbit learned to simply keep the endless gnaw of hunger to himself.

Once Erebor was finally reclaimed, Bilbo imagined all their problems would be immediately solved; Thorin would be King, Smaug would be dead, and the Dwarves would be avenged. Refugees would return to their homeland and Erebor would be restored to greatness.

No one had seen the battle coming.

In the aftermath of the war, Bilbo’s natural appetite was once again ignored. Though by then it was much easier; his incessant worrying over the recovering Dwarf King proved a great distraction.

But now Thorin was recuperated, if still a bit tender. Yet every time Bilbo pushed himself to mention a Hobbit’s rightful seven daily meals, he stopped short. For Erebor was just barely beginning to recover. Skeletal remains were still being excavated and prepared for proper burial; piles of gold had to be dealt with, which the King refused to discuss out of doubt for his own self-control; and many corridors were in constant danger of collapse. Not to mention resolving problems with dusting, housing, plumbing, and importation of food.

Esgaroth was utterly destroyed, and Dale was in ruins. Mirkwood was the closest trading partner, but as its new name would suggest, the Elves struggled to cultivate food even for themselves. While Thranduil was willing to trade what he could reasonably spare with Bard of Dale, relations between the Elf and Dwarf Kings were tentative at best.

Thorin and Bilbo’s own relationship was uncertain as well. Forgiveness had been imparted, but rebuilding trust was a slow process. Slower yet was cultivating the timid connection they had had before, a bond once promising courtship. But neither party was so fickle as to forsake their reciprocated affection, and both were committed to exploring their potential.

It was because of that potential future that Bilbo found himself sitting with the King in his bedchamber this night. For how could they grow together if Bilbo kept such a matter to himself, as trivial as it was? The Hobbit need not accept anyone else’s rations, but it would be a relief for the King to at least know. If he were lucky, Thorin may even put more effort into a treaty with Thranduil on his behalf.

“Thorin, I have something I must tell you,” Bilbo confessed, staring into his mug of tea. It was much easier to ignore the intensity of the King’s stare if he focused on the steam vaporizing into the air.

“Go on,” Thorin said with a false flatness in his voice.

Twiddling his nose, Bilbo steeled himself for his next words. It was not as if it were some great secret, yet the moment felt so intimate.“Once Erebor establishes food trade, I will need to eat more. Hobbits, you see – we eat seven meals a day, if we can.”

Silence met his confession, for now that it was said, Bilbo realized it was truly nothing less than that. The Hobbit pursed his lips, bracing himself to look up. The King’s jaw rested on his thumbs, hands pressed together against his nose.

“Seven,” he repeated finally, voice hoarse.

“As I said, if we can,” Bilbo clarified unhelpfully. “We can make due with five, however.”

“And how long have you been forced to make due on less than half that?” Thorin sneered, jumping to his feet to pace restlessly. “How could you not tell me sooner?”

“And how would you have reacted, hmm?” Bilbo stood as well, defiant hands on his hips. “How would you have reacted when you found out the soft, worthless creature you already did not want was an even _greater_ burden?”

The King spun around, lips pulled back to snarl a retort. But all his anger seemed to die immediately, as though a bucket of ice had been poured in his veins. He stood, silent, examining the Hobbit before him. Bilbo’s arms instinctively wrapped around himself, uncomfortable with the scrutinizing assessment.

“I have failed you again,” Thorin declared, voice hoarse.

“Again? Thorin, you’ve never –”

"I would have killed you,” Thorin reminded him gravely, “Blinded as I was by my greed.”

“You weren’t yourself,” Bilbo insisted. “You were sick.”

“And what excuse have I now?” the King yelled. “Have I been sick since you first joined my Company, that I could not see you waste away?”

"If I have proven anything to you, I believe it is that Hobbits are not to be underestimated. Yes, we enjoy seven meals a day. But we can endure without them. And I’m not _wasting away_ , you big oaf,” he added with a mock frown. “Where do you think all those meals go?” Chuckling, he placed a hand over his stomach, which was still a bit plump despite the prolonged shortage of food. “It’s for storage!”

Slowly the King approached Bilbo, though the Hobbit’s attempt at humour did not seem to affect him. Raising a gentle hand, he carefully caressed the smaller man’s cheek.

“Ghivashel, would you allow me one more chance at redemption?”

Bilbo couldn’t stop himself from snorting at Thorin’s endless theatrics, though a pleased smile tugged at his lips nevertheless.

You do realize this means negotiating an actual treaty with Thranduil, right?”

"Anything for you,” Thorin breathed, a declaration promising so much more than just food.


	2. Braids

Thorin’s fingers ran through his husband’s locks, mesmerized by the glossy ringlets. The Hobbit’s hair was such a beautiful auburn, a colour nonexistent amongst Dwarven kind. It shimmered like pure gold, all but begging to be caressed. All day the hair mesmerized the King, as though that singular part of Bilbo was some enchanting bewitcher. He longed to grasp the strands, twirl them around his thick fingers, feel the curls glide against his rough skin like soothing silk. Abating the desire was a truly difficult feat, and Thorin was oft left with no choice but to give in.

Outside the privacy of their chambers, the King was forced to keep his touch subtle; a tender pat on the head, the gentle smoothing of a wayward curl, perhaps a salacious tug, but only when no one was watching.

At last, they were blessedly alone, and Thorin was free to do as he wished. And right now, more than anything else, he yearned to see his husband’s unruly hair tamed into intricate braids. Bilbo had assented without resistance, lulled into relaxation by the tender caresses.

However, Bilbo’s hair was proving to be as fussy as the Hobbit himself.

The curls begged for Thorin’s touch, baited his fingers with their silky softness, yet refused to cooperate when he tried to manage them. As another curl pulled from his intertwining grasp, unraveling his entire progress, Thorin muttered dark oaths under his breath.

“Thorin,” Bilbo tsked. “I don’t need to understand Khuzdul to know what you’re saying.”

“Your hair is to blame, not I,” Thorin countered with admitted petulance.

With a heavy sigh, the King pulled the strands free and started once more, deft fingers separating the strands. But when the next three attempts proved unsuccessful, Thorin could not hold his tongue.

“You will no longer cut your hair,” Thorin declared suddenly. His words surprised even himself, and as his husband turned around, the King wisely regretted them.

“Excuse me?” Bilbo’s tight mockery of a smile dared the Dwarven warrior to repeat himself.

Thorin blanched under the ferocity of his husband’s glare. Without the King’s permission, his tongue continued, “You say you wish to adopt more Dwarven customs as Consort. Yet you cut your hair. While I cannot hold you accountable for your beard mistakenly growing on your feet, the way you assault your hair is something I will not abide by.”

“My beard mistakenly grows on my feet?” Bilbo repeated with dangerous slowness. Thorin’s mouth opened, most likely to bring his imminent death that much closer, but was blessedly silenced by Bilbo’s raised finger. “No, no. That will be a discussion for a later time.” Regrettably, mariticide was clearly still on the table. “I’m much more interested about me being _banished_ from cutting my own hair. Please, go on.”

Throat suddenly dry, Thorin vainly attempted to pull himself together.

He had survived Smaug at 24 years, fought at the gates of Moria at 53 years, immediately after which the leadership of his displaced people was thrust upon him. More recently, he had defeated said dragon, taken back his lost kingdom, and avenged his forebears in a battle of five armies.

He could face his Hobbit husband. Bilbo was only three foot five, for Mahal’s sake!

…And every inch of that was _pure terror._

“Ghivashel,” Thorin began, hiding a wince at Bilbo’s darkening glower. The Hobbit was not one easily charmed with sweet words. “I am merely concerned about your reception as Consort.”

“You know bloody well, Thorin Oakenshield, that the Dwarves of this mountain revere me, even if I don’t understand it myself.”

Unfortunately in this moment, Bilbo’s claim was true. Tales of the Hobbit’s bravery throughout the quest had quickly carried through the mountain, gaining embellishment over time. Though his feats certainly needed no exaggeration to be impressive. When Thorin had announced his choice in Consort to the kingdom he had inevitably met some backlash, but it was surprisingly little.

“I long to see you in braids,” Thorin finally admitted. “I desire nothing more than to plait your hair, and decorate it with beads of my clan forged by mine own hands.”

Twitching lips and softening eyes betrayed the cracks in Bilbo’s mulish expression, though the Hobbit tried valiantly to retain his anger as he scolded, “Why can’t you just ask, you ridiculous Dwarf?”

“Is that a yes?” Thorin asked slyly, hands immediately returning to the too-short locks as his mind already began conspiring.

“No,” Bilbo maintained, even as his lips split into an affectionate grin and he leaned in for a kiss.


	3. Crying

Thorin silently slipped into his bedchambers, or as silently as a Dwarf could given their heavy layers and heavier boots. The council meeting had dragged on far too long, thanks to the quick tempers of guild leaders. Thorin knew his husband would be asleep by now, accustomed to a life of easy comfort as Bilbo was. It was amazing the same Hobbit who faced a dragon completely alone also complained endlessly about early mornings and late second breakfasts.

True to his prediction, a distinctly Hobbit-sized shape was hunched over in an armchair by the fire. It was not uncommon for Bilbo to fall asleep while awaiting his husband’s return, a fact that often tore at Thorin’s heart.

The Dwarf approached slowly, aiming to bring his husband to a proper bed without rousing the sleeping form. Yet as he came closer, soft gasping noises reached his ears. Belatedly he realized Bilbo’s form was not still at all, but faintly trembling. While Bilbo was not plagued by night terrors nearly as often as Thorin, it was still easy to recognize.

That did nothing to quell Thorin’s hammering heart, a fearful panic that arose every time the Hobbit was in any way harmed, physically or otherwise. No matter how many years passed, it seemed Thorin could not accept the good fortune bestowed upon him. Always he waited for the terrible day that this life, this happiness, would be ripped from him.

“Bilbo.” Grasping his husband’s trembling shoulders, Thorin shook the Hobbit, grip light but firm. “Bilbo, wake up.”

There was a sniffle under the mass of curls currently obscuring his husband’s face from view. A shaky hand came up, disappearing to wipe at the Hobbit’s face.

“I’m up, Thorin,” Bilbo whispered hoarsely.

Confusion battled worry as Thorin knelt at his husband’s feet, rough fingers gently pushing aside Bilbo’s hair to finally reveal his blotchy, wet face.

“Why do you cry, ghivashel?” Thorin asked anxiously.

Bilbo’s nose twitched as he sniffled once more, a quirk normally quite endearing to the King. But now it was used as Bilbo composed himself needlessly, wiping away his tear marks and clearing his throat.

“I received word from the Shire. M-My, ah,” he cut off as his voice cracked, bottom lip wobbling as tears threatened to fall once more. He finally whispered, “My cousins drowned.”

“Amrâlimê,” Thorin breathed gently, hands cupping his husband’s cheeks.

Bilbo half-heartedly pulled away, though he soon gave in to the touch. Large thumbs brushed away falling tears as Thorin tried his best to console. Bilbo had always struggled with expressing himself, and the oppressive culture into which he had been born had taught him emotions were to be buried away behind a polite façade. Following the death of his parents, no one encouraged Bilbo to embrace his quirks and love of adventuring. Mocking for his peculiarities isolated Bilbo from other Hobbits, and he had been denied touch and interaction for many long years.

In the present Bilbo was terribly silent, eyes devoted to his lap in what could only be shame. A violent shake wracked his body, broken sob forcing its way up his throat before the Hobbit all but flung himself into his husband’s awaiting embrace.

“Hush now, akhûnith,” Thorin soothed. He was not particularly adept at comforting, but the actions came surprisingly naturally with Bilbo. An arm wrapped around the Hobbit’s small frame, drawing him into a secure embrace. The other hand rubbed calming circles into his back as consoling words were whispered into Bilbo’s ear. The Hobbit clung to Thorin’s tunic as the sobbing overtook him, taking ragged breaths as his husband guided him.

After a long while, the sobs diminished to wet gasps, and finally intermittent sniffles. Releasing his vice grip, Bilbo settled his arms around his husband more gently.

“Frodo – ah, their son – he’s going to live with his cousins in Brandy Hall,” Bilbo whispered.

Thorin hummed, patiently waiting for his husband to gather his thoughts.

Finally Bilbo continued, voice cracking distressingly, “They always wanted me to take him. But I-I never…I never…”

As fresh sobs threatened to rattle Bilbo’s body once more, Thorin pulled the Hobbit in tighter, hushing him gently.

“It’s not your fault, Bilbo,” Thorin soothed. “It’s not your fault.”

“He’s going to get lost,” Bilbo whimpered. “He has so many cousins, and Frodo’s a shy boy. He’s going to get lost.”

“No, he won’t,” Thorin vowed. “Because we’re going to get him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ghivashel – treasure of (all) treasure  
> Amrâlimê – my love  
> Akhûnith – little one


	4. Doily

“Thorin, have you seen my box?”

The King looked up from his endless paperwork, quill clenched in his hand tighter than likely necessary. Glancing around, he pointedly raised his brows at the box-littered floor.

“I see many,” he drawled finally.

Bilbo stood with a huff, hands fisted on plump hips. “Seriously, Thorin! I’m missing one!”

“What does it look like?” the King asked, lips twitching as he returned to signing the documents, narrowly missing his husband’s annoyed glare.

“Like a _box_ , you confounded Dwarf!”

Ignoring the King’s muted chuckles, Bilbo returned to his harried searching. Patchwork quilts were thrown aside, piles of colourful clothes pushed out of his way. Predictably, the vibrant greens, yellows, and reds made up cut-off breeches, waistcoats, braces, and a multitude of ascots. Thorin would likely never understand the strange garments which Hobbits were inclined to wear. It seemed such a dichotomy to his Dwarvish sensibilities – for such prim and proper little creatures, the clothes were tight and scandalously revealing.

As his Consort rifled through each package, Thorin snuck surreptitious glances at him. The Hobbit’s golden curls were in disarray, frazzled from aggravated hands running through them. His usually pristine clothes were wrinkled, shirt buttons undone and sleeves rolled up.

Dís, Thorin’s sister, had just arrived today from Ered Luin. As she had made her way from the Western mountain range, she and her travelling company had stopped by Bag End. Hamfast, a trusted neighbour, had already packed Bilbo’s most prized items to be transported to the newly reclaimed Dwarven kingdom.

The barest necessities, Bilbo had promised Dís.

Her Royal Guard had been reduced to little more than pack mules, practically buckling under the sheer amount of so-called _necessities_. Their arrival had been understandably waylaid, though any and all grumbling complaints had been silenced in the presence of their King.

At the sight of his possessions, Bilbo’s hazel eyes had lit up beautifully. The Consort all but bounced on the balls of his large feet in anticipation. But Thorin had seen the haggard exhaustion the Guard tried to hide; he alleviated them of their duty and thanked them for their work – both guarding his sister and bringing the Consort’s belongings. Another group of Dwarves was charged with bringing the packages to the Royal Chambers, enduring Bilbo’s excited chatter and, on one occasion, worried chastising when his mother’s glory box was slightly jostled.

Now their chambers were absolutely cluttered, pristine stone floors hidden from sight. Perhaps forever, Thorin lamented mournfully. He could only hope their bed would be spared the Western takeover –

As if on cue, an assortment of crockery was placed onto the expansive furniture, on top of the blindingly colourful duvet Bilbo had previously added.

Sometimes Thorin wondered if one of Bilbo’s Hobbit abilities was mind reading. If indeed Hobbits were so preternaturally skilled, it certainly seemed Bilbo used his power to spite his husband.

“I can’t believe it’s not here!” the Shireling exclaimed, coming to stand in front of his husband with a huff. Bilbo stared Thorin down, waiting with thinly veiled impatience for the Dwarf to put aside his paperwork. Obligingly Thorin looked up – after perhaps long moment of languid initially – to Bilbo’s fuming scowl.

“It’s not here,” Bilbo reiterated, clearly waiting for the King to use his royal sway to make the possession magically appear.

“Shall I have Dwalin organize a search party?” Thorin asked slowly, reveling in his husband’s vexation.

“Thorin _bloody_ Oakenshield, I swear to Aulë, if you don’t get off your stubborn behind –”

Raising a placating hand, the Dwarf rose to his feet. “Peace, husband mine,” he soothed. Whenever Bilbo began cursing – or as close as his Hobbit sensibilities would ever allow – Thorin knew to stop teasing. “We will find your box, ghivashel.”

The King strode towards the front entrance, having no idea how to begin a search for a _box_ lost in a _mountain_ , but unwilling to let his uncertainty show. Before reaching the entryway, however, there was a pounding at the door.

A swing of heavy stone revealed a grinning Kíli, small wooden box tucked under his arm. With nary a greeting, the package was torn from a bewildered Dwarf, a thieving Hobbit hurriedly ripping it open.

“Uh…” Kíli’s eyes widened, startled by the Consort’s ferocity. “’Amad said one of your boxes was placed with hers,” he explained slowly.

Bilbo waved a hand in silent thanks, forgoing decorum in the rush to reacquaint himself with his precious items. The Dwarves looked on in interest, keenly awaiting the reveal of what had their Hobbit in such a fuss. As the package was finally opened, Bilbo sighed in relief, clutching something to his chest. View obstructed, Thorin knelt beside the satisfied Hobbit, but a baffled frown tightened the King’s brows as he took in the items in front of him.

“What are these?” Thorin asked slowly, side glancing at the Hobbit, confusion marring disbelief. There was a pile of rags, each small and circular with a multitude of holes. Picking one up, he pinched the material between his thumb and forefinger and held it away from his body, as if disgusted. “Did you make them as a child?”

“Excuse me!” Bilbo yelped, scandalized, tearing the cloth from the Dwarf’s grasp. “They’re my doilies!”

“Doilies?” Kíli repeated, coming to kneel by his uncle’s side. “What in Mahal’s name is a _doily_?”

“Oh, it’s just for decoration, really,” Bilbo explained with a flippant wave of his hand, throwing the lid back on the package.

Thorin watched in stunned silence as Bilbo sauntered back to their bedroom, seemingly indifferent to the discovery already.

“You threw a fit over _decorations_?” the outraged King yelled at the Hobbit’s retreating form.


	5. Echo

Darkness surrounded Bilbo. Closed in on him, concealing his trembling limbs and binding his heaving chest. Damp stone invaded his nostrils, filling his lungs with the cloying scent. Shaky fingers reached out, fingertips just barely brushing against a cool ragged wall. Large feet tripped over each other as he stumbled along, terrified of the awaiting unknown.

“Th-Thorin?” he stammered nervously. The name resonated all around him, far too loud in such a confined cavern.

Heavy booted steps approached, booming in their clamouring force. But they were familiar all the same, and Bilbo clung to the noise, trying to will his frozen body towards them.

“Ghivashel?” Thorin called, echoing voice pitched with worry. “Bilbo, what is wrong?”

If it weren’t for the stomping footfalls, Bilbo would have had no warning as the King’s large hands suddenly grasped his slender arms.

“I-I can’t see,” Bilbo admitted, afraid to speak above a murmur, clutching his husband’s tunic. It was mortifying to be so afraid, but he couldn’t bring himself to care in this moment. Hobbits were made for bright sunshine and fresh air. He was far out of his comfort here; musky old air, cool stone, and pitch darkness were Dwarven domain.

“…Are you well?” Thorin’s words were a concerned whisper, barely spoken, as if anything louder would bear ill news.

“Yes, I’m bloody alright!” Bilbo snapped, impatience quickly replacing his fear. “But _Your stubborn Highness_ refused to bring a torch!”

“Your eyes are fine?” Thorin clarified slowly.

“Of course!” Bilbo asserted, though he was interrupted before his rant could go on.

“You cannot see…because it is too dark?” The Dwarf’s tone made it quite clear this was a ridiculous notion.

Bilbo’s lips pursed indignantly, hoping Thorin’s vision was good enough that he could see the Hobbit’s ire. “People generally cannot see when there is _no light_ ,” he hissed between clenched teeth.

Thorin snorted dismissively, releasing his grasp to turn around. Without the contact, Thorin may as well be miles away – but thankfully a hand slipped back into Bilbo’s, large and encompassing, a security line.

“Hobbits perhaps,” Thorin commented haughtily. “Dwarvish eyes are keen in darkness.” Bilbo rolled his eyes, choosing to yield to his husband’s teasing if it meant getting out of this Yavanna forsaken hole faster. “Perhaps I was wrong when I praised your eyesight those months ago.”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” Bilbo sniffed indignantly.

Thorin chuckled, a usually pleasing sound now disconcerting as it bounced off the walls, dogging their steps and guiding their path.

As the King refused to tell his Consort where they were headed, Bilbo had no choice but to follow deeper and deeper into the heart of the mountain. He had been quite nervous before going – flashbacks of Thorin getting lost in _Hobbiton_ of all places, with signs along every bloody road, haunted him. But Dwarves apparently had some sort of stone sense, a gift from their Creator. Despite all logic, if there was one place Thorin would never get lost, it was in a deep, dark cave.

Thorin stopped abruptly, causing Bilbo to collide into his hard back. Scowling, the Hobbit mulishly rubbed his sore nose.

“Close your eyes.”

The Hobbit huffed in annoyance. “Thorin, I told you – I can’t see!”

“Akhûnith,” the Dwarf chided with a heavy sigh, as if he were debating with an obstinate child (or perhaps Kíli).

Bilbo grumbled under his breath, but did as asked. “Won’t make any difference, anyways,” he muttered sourly.

“My thanks,” Thorin remarked drily, stepping behind his husband to guide the Shireling forward. Leading into the unknown, Bilbo threw his hands out in front of him. Ignoring his husband’s amused chuckles, his fingers blindly groped for any attacking obstruction. They walked like this for a few paces, Thorin chiding Bilbo’s apparent lack of trust. Finally they stopped, the King’s anticipatory inhale quickening the Hobbit’s own pulse.

Lips brushed against a sensitive curved ear as Thorin leaned in, whispering, “Open your eyes.”

Bilbo’s nose scrunched up, chewing his lip in half-excitement, half-trepidation. Carefully he peeked one eye open a sliver, before both quickly widened. His jaw fell open, chest expanding as he gasped, absolutely awed.

“Thorin!” he exclaimed, taking unhesitant steps into the cave. “What is this?”

No reply came immediately as Thorin simply watched his husband, wonder and amazement lighting up the Hobbit’s countenance. A slow smile spread across the Dwarf’s face, eyes softening in endearment. Despite the beauty surrounding them, his eyes could not stray from the beauty in front of him.

“Glowworms,” he explained softly.

The Hobbit repeated the word with breathless fascination, twirling around with his gaze to the ceiling. Some of the insects clustered together in large globs of brightness. Others fell down in strings of light, tempting the Hobbit to reach up and touch. Together, the creatures lit up the cave with their luminescent light. The colour, a glowing mix between teal and cerulean, was unlike anything Bilbo had ever seen before. Internally he scolded himself for ever doubting the beauty to be found in a mountain.

Turning back to his husband, Bilbo was relieved to see Thorin’s face once more. The blue light illuminated the Dwarf’s sharp features, paling his tanned skin. Bilbo sauntered towards his companion, small fingers tugging at thick dark hair. Obligingly, Thorin leaned down, searching Bilbo’s open expression.

“Thank you,” the Hobbit murmured softly before pressing his lips to his husband’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ghivashel - treasure of (all) tresure  
> Akhûnith – little one


	6. Flower

As a Child of Yavanna, Bilbo had a love for all things that grew. But flowers, in particular, were his favourite. In the spring and summer he would leave the mountain every day to spend time in sun-warmed grass, smelling the sweet pollen in the air and basking in the cool breeze. Thorin did not share this adoration, but he was willing to divulge his husband when possible. Thus the King worked a picnic outside with his Consort at least once a week.

Regrettably, Thorin and Bilbo had seen little of each other since the King had left their chambers ere sunrise that morn. He had received word that his Hobbit had spent the afternoon outside, so there was the easing knowledge that at least one of them would be in an agreeable mood.

“Good evening, Thorin!” Bilbo greeted merrily as the King entered from where he was seated close. Foliage surrounded the small creature – even his lap was covered, so he waved his husband closer in lieu of standing himself. “I brought some flowers!”

Bilbo’s strange predilection for gathering flowers was not new; he often put them in strangely shaped pots, with sugar water to keep them alive. Thus Thorin simply hummed a half-hearted acknowledgement, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his husband’s golden curls.

“Very nice,” he commented vaguely, straightening before going through his nightly routine. He returned a while later, loose robe thrown over his smallclothes and hair unbound. Joining his husband by the fire, Thorin found the flowers now sorted into a neat pile, the unfamiliar preparations Bilbo put them through apparently finished.

“Let me braid your hair,” Bilbo invited temptingly.

The King submitted readily, placing a cushion on the floor as he sat between the Hobbit’s legs. He handed over a bottle of lightly scented oil, having anticipated Bilbo making such an offer. Chuckling, the Hobbit grabbed the proffered vial, rubbing some oil on his hands before smoothing it through Thorin’s long dark locks. Thorin was all but purring in contentment by the time Bilbo finally divided three small sections and began to weave them together. Eyes slipping closed, the Dwarf’s head tilted back, leaning into the touch.

The Hobbit’s gentle touch was irresistibly soothing; the King was practically lulled into a comatose state. Unguarded as he was, Thorin only belatedly realized something other than hair was being entwined into the plaits. A hand shot up, thick paw crushing the delicate item beneath.

“Thorin!” Bilbo cried indignantly, swatting the hand away. “You’ve crushed it!”

“What devilry is this?” Thorin growled, voice thick from sleepiness. Tugging the offending object out, the Dwarf winced slightly as it pulled on his hairs. Opening his palm revealed a crushed bloom. Layers upon layers of small oval petals, silky softness crippled under the rough touch.

“Thorin, why would you do that?” Small tanned fingers plucked the flower from its captor, smoothing it out to no avail. Bilbo’s voice was quiet, lamenting the delicate loss.

“I knew not you would add such frivolities to my hair,” Thorin grumbled, clinging to his indignation in the face of guilt.

“Is that what you think of my values?”

“Do your people traditionally braid flowers into each other’s hair?”

“No,” Bilbo admitted, but he continued on before Thorin could laud over the win. “Normally we weave a crown of flowers, but I knew that would seem silly to you, what with your gold-encrusted one. But if I braided them into your hair, I thought…” the Hobbit trailed off, fingers still stroking the red petals reverently. “I don’t know. Perhaps we could make new traditions, together.”

As no response came, Bilbo sighed. Tenderly placing the rejected flower on the nearby table, his nimble fingers began unwinding Thorin’s hair. “I’ll take them out,” he explained quietly.

The Dwarf plucked the bloom from the table, examining it carefully. Bringing it to his nose, he breathed in the floral perfume. Cloyingly sweet, in his opinion, but not unpleasant.

“Love,” he murmured finally, turning his head to look over at his husband. Hazel eyes slowly lifted, Bilbo’s deft fingers stilling. Firelight danced across the orbs, accentuating the golden yellows lining the pitch pupils. “This flower represents love.”

Bilbo’s mouth opened, sun-chapped lips parting, only to release a startled breath in place of actual words. Delicate brows drawing together, Bilbo frowned in puzzlement. “How – how did you know?”

“You told me,” Thorin explained simply.

Chewing his lip, Bilbo’s eyes darted to the flower and back, as though he suspected some trick. “I didn’t think you were listening,” he admitted with a deprecating chuckle.

The Dwarf exchanged the broken flower with a new one, carefully pinching the thin stem. Bringing it up to his husband, he placed it behind a pointed ear, nestled by an abundance of curls.

“Let us create our new traditions,” the King welcomed.


	7. Gardening

A Hobbit’s love for foliage and agriculture was hard for a Dwarf to understand. Farming certainly had purpose, but it was a means to an end, putting food on the table. The time and effort put into flower garden, however, seemed a waste – the plants would die soon anyways. You could not do anything with them; they had no intrinsic value. They were pretty to look at, but before you could blink, they would be wilting away.

But Bilbo was compelled by his Hobbity nature to garden, and Thorin was not one to deny his husband anything. Bilbo scouted out terraces on different sides of the mountain, measuring very important…things. In all honesty, Thorin wasn’t too clear on what it was his husband assessed – sunlight exposure and wind speed perhaps – and he felt it was best to leave it to the Hobbit. Once a balcony was decided upon, Bilbo went about creating his garden. Set-up alone took an extraordinary amount of time and effort. Long patches were designed, soil imported from Dale, plots carefully measured to a certain depth. Bilbo even brought in _worms_ , at which point the Company had become convinced the poor, delicate Hobbit, overwhelmingly stressed by his duties as Consort, had simply snapped.

A break from his obligations had been all but forced upon Bilbo after that. The Hobbit had been quite suspicious, but accepted the reprieve nevertheless, content to spend more time in his developing cultivation.

Bilbo would retire to bed every night, fingernails caked and cheeks smudged with dirt. Yet his excited chatter was incessant, the Hobbit gushing to his husband about soil consistency and rigged irrigation. Thorin listened patiently, although he did not understand many of the terms. He was simply happy to see his husband so happy.

It could work, they both thought, though neither spoke aloud their anxious hope: a Hobbit really could live his days out under a mountain.

But then Bilbo returned home one night, eyes downcast and lip swollen from nervous chewing. The plants he had spent weeks nurturing and watering had all failed to sprout.

In the morning, however, Bilbo’s spirits were renewed: they were the first seeds ever sewed in this new soil, Bilbo reminded himself, and his agricultural skills were sorely out of practice. Surely the next batch would take.

Just to be on the safe side, Bilbo pushed aside his Hobbit pride and purchased sunflower seeds. Fully matured, the plant was very beautiful, but it was known to be an incredibly simple flower to grow. Amongst Hobbits, it was the first plant given to a faunt; it took an exceptionally inept individual to kill a sunflower.

Yet a week later, there was nothing.

Marigolds, pansies, begonias, snapdragons – Bilbo tried them all, knowing his reputation would be in ruins back home if anyone knew he was struggling with such simple species.

But no matter what flower he tried, none of them sprouted.

 

When Thorin came to bed one night, Bilbo was already there, curled in a tight ball. The Hobbit normally burrowed under the blankets, complaining about chilled mountains no matter how high the fire was stoked. But tonight he lay on top of the furs at the edge of the bed, far away from his husband’s side.

Thorin was having none of this; he piled the blankets high on top of the small prone form before slipping underneath himself. Gently pulling Bilbo towards the middle, he tucked the Hobbit into his chest, arms wrapping him around securely.

“They’re all dying on me.”

Bilbo’s tiny, broken voice was muffled, but Thorin heard his husband’s words all too clearly.

 

Bilbo and Hamfast had begun exchanging letters as Bilbo searched desperately for answers. But when his former gardener’s newest letter arrived, Thorin had to actually convince the discouraged Hobbit to open the seal. Out fell a small bag of seeds, not an uncommon occurrence; Bilbo picked them up with a slight sigh, reading over the oddly short letter.

“What is it?” Thorin asked, seeing his husband’s puzzled frown.

“I don’t know,” Bilbo confessed slowly, eyes scanning the words once more. “Hamfast is convinced it will solve my problems, but…” Bilbo licked his lips, examining the bag with painful hope. “He didn’t say what flower it is.”

Bilbo felt no shame in acknowledging Hamfast’s superiority in agriculture; over the years, Hamfast had proven his talent time and again. Only at the behest of his old friend did Bilbo trudge up to his private terrace and plant the seeds.

 

Two weeks later, Thorin found himself dragged out of a council meeting, quite literally, by an eager Hobbit. It should be shameful, as King, to be so publicly dominated by his tiny Consort. But indignity was soon forgotten as Thorin was pulled him up a private stairwell.

“You are a wanton little thing,” Thorin teased, voice husky with anticipation. On their wedding night, Thorin had been pleasantly surprised to find his husband, modest and proper on the outside, could be quite lascivious. Many times Thorin had been called from meetings due to some mysterious ailment or injury, ones that always required only the King…and for about one hour. Given his husband’s recently sour mood, Thorin had not expected such a treat, though he was far from complaining.

Distracted by his lustful thoughts, Thorin only belatedly recognized Bilbo’s private garden. Before he could question this turn of events, Bilbo was tugging him to his knees – and Thorin realized with sinking disappointment that it was not for anything fun.

“Look!” Bilbo cried eagerly, pointing to the patch of soil in front of them.

A red stem broke out of the earth, splitting off into multiple branches. Most of the shoots tapered off into hex-pointed leaves. But a precious few possessed small buds. One had already blossomed, opening to reveal a light purple blossom. In the middle of the five petals was a white-yellow centre.

“It’s ivy-leaved toadflax!” Bilbo enunciated the tongue-twisting title as though it were the most obvious thing.

“Was a single name not enough?” Thorin jested gently, grasping one of his husband’s dirty hands and giving it an encouraging squeeze.

Bilbo stared at his achievement, captivated. Leaning in close, a single fingertip gently grazed one of the leaves. “You’re doing so well,” he whispered, nurturing voice tender with love but hardened with determination. “Don’t give up now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ivy-leaved toadflax (according to Google) grow on mountains. So we're gonna pretend this makes sense. Okay?? Okay.


	8. Heat

“Bilbo?”

Thorin eyed the mountain of furs currently piled up on the bed, gauging whether or not a tiny Hobbit could actually survive under such weight. Just as he opened his mouth to call again, a half-hearted groan came from within the heap, accompanied by a shifting of movement. Thorin could easily picture Bilbo burying his face into his pillow, staving off awaking as long as possible.

“Bilbo, what in Mahal’s name are you doing?” the Dwarf asked, climbing onto the bed to face the gigantic mound. He began peeling off the blankets one-by-one, but this method proved much too slow; even by the handful, it took long minutes before the King was rewarded with a peek at golden curls.

“‘M cold,” came a muffled reply. A small pale hand darted out, just long enough to grab a fistful of furs and drape them back over the small body, hiding Bilbo from sight once more.

Thorin chuckled, garnering an indignant grunt. “Beorn was right,” he conceded, slipping under the mass as well to selflessly offer his body heat to the poor, frigid creature. “You are a little bunny.”

Said bunny-in-disguise snorted, but his ire did nothing to hinder the icy fingers seeking out warm skin. Thorin hissed at the contact, the chill burning even through his furred chest.

“‘M cold,” the Hobbit repeated, teeth practically chattering. His nose found Thorin’s neck, and Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief as radiating heat finally enshrouded him.

“So I’ve been told, akhûnith,” Thorin huffed softly, rubbing his arms up and down his husband’s small back. “The servants have just stoked the fire; you’ll be warmed up soon.”

True to the King’s word, the mountain of blankets soon became stifling. The furs were thrown back, but the Dwarf and Hobbit still clung to each other, refusing to let go even in sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Akhûnith – little one


	9. Icicles

“What in Mahal’s name are you doing?” Thorin bellowed, staring incredulously at the sight before him.

Hazel eyes turned up to the King, innocent and doe-wide. “Nothing,” Bilbo replied before returning to his previous task. The Hobbit was trussed up in thick layers of fur, protection against the bitter cold enshrouding outdoors.

“Do I not feed you enough,” Thorin seethed, stepping closer to his bewildering husband. “That you must resort to _this_?” The Dwarf knew all too well how much Hobbits loved to indulge, but this – this was too much.

Despite all sense, the Hobbit replied, “You feed me plenty.” Bilbo rolled his eyes, patting his plump stomach.

“Then why must you do this?” Thorin hissed, grasping his husband’s arms and giving a gentle shake.

“Oh, goodness, Thorin!” Bilbo yelped, shrugging out of the King’s grip. “I’m not doing it out of starvation!”

“Is that meant to be appeasing?” The cold wind bit through the King’s thin layers, as he had no time to dress appropriately before storming out here in pursuit of his peculiar husband. “What will our people say?”

Bilbo sighed, fixing his husband with a look that went beyond exasperation. “Thorin, what is your problem, exactly?”

“You’re licking an icicle!” The King shouted, hands waving at the offending object in the Hobbit’s grip.

“We always did this back home in the winter,” Bilbo explained slowly, puzzled frown peeking out from his heavy fringe. “It…brings back memories.” The Hobbit looked down, scuffing his bare feet in the snow. And how he could stand out here, in no less than three layers of heavy furs, with _bare feet_ was beyond comprehension. But the forlorn look had the King predictably melting, pulling his Consort into his arms.

“This stays between us,” he warned lightly, though his words were certainly no jest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know anymore.


	10. Jewelry

Today was Bilbo’s inauguration as Consort Under the Mountain. While it undoubtedly paled in comparison to the King’s coronation, it was still a much-anticipated event with weeks of preparation involved. Bilbo was happy to acquiesce to the Dwarves’ traditions, especially since, well, the Shire didn’t exactly have these sorts of celebrations.

“But this – this is _too much_ ,” Bilbo yelled, shaking his head adamantly. “I can’t even look at it!” The Hobbit covered his poor eyes with one hand, the other waving furiously at the offending object.

“Ghivashel,” Thorin sighed, as though _he_ were the longsuffering one in this marriage. “You asked for the jewelry to be small. I have gone to _painstaking_ measures to ensure your wishes were obeyed.”

“And what made you think any self-respecting Hobbit would wear that?” he shouted.

“It is small,” Thorin said simply.

“It’s – it’s _small_?” Bilbo chuckled humourlessly.

The King quickly supplemented, “And lightly adorned.”

Bilbo’s jaw dropped as he stopped his angry pacing, taking a moment to simply stare at the Dwarf he called husband. The Dwarf who _ran an entire kingdom_. “Did Aulë give you _any_ sense?” he bemoaned.

Thorin’s eyes narrowed, the muscles of his jaw jumping as he reined in his temper.

“Look, Thorin,” Bilbo sighed. “I appreciate the effort that went into forging this, but I can’t wear it.”

The King fingered the small silver curve wistfully before moving to the studded gems.

“You know how sensitive my ears are,” Bilbo reminded him, tone much more gentle than before.

As Thorin looked up, his scowl was replaced with a salacious smirk. “I do,” he agreed, low and sultry voice sending Bilbo spluttering and blushing.

“R-Right. Well. Uhm.” Words seemed to have abandoned the usually eloquent Hobbit under the stare of his husband’s heating gaze. “I-I’m not wearing them.”

The King slowly approached, bowing his head to whisper in Bilbo’s ear. Lips grazed the sensitive skin, hot breath sending the poor Hobbit’s toes curling. “When we are alone, then,” he conceded.


	11. King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I tried T.T

Thorin Oakenshield was an great king. Bilbo had known this long before Erebor was reclaimed, before he had a kingdom to call his own. But to see him on the throne, murmuring in hushed tones to Balin, appointed Royal Advisor, dictating messages to Ori, Royal Scribe, or simply sitting, heavy crown upon his brow, draped in lavish navy robes; it spread a warm feeling through Bilbo’s chest, knowing how _right_ things were now. The Valar worked in mysterious ways, and while he certainly wished Thorin and all the Dwarves had not been through the struggles they had, he was glad everything had led to this: Thorin taking his rightful place on the throne of Erebor.

While the Kingdom Under the Mountain was far from flourishing as it had nearly two centuries ago, King Thorin worked hard to turn Erebor in the right direction. Bilbo knew from experience any attempts at praising the revered Dwarf would be quickly rebuffed on a good day. On a bad day, it could send Thorin spiraling into self-flagellation, berating himself over mistakes long past.

But Bilbo was always there, comforting his husband, bringing him back from dark places. It was hard to eradicate Thorin’s guilt; the Dwarf was stubborn, and clung to his perceived wrongdoings. So the Hobbit had learned to refocus the King’s attention on the future, the only unfixed variable. When focused on his kingdom, Thorin had not the time to dwell on the past, and though he was exhaustively devoted, the Hobbit could see how he glowed with pride as his people began to prosper once more.


	12. Lunch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry these have become so short! I'm running out of ideas T.T On that subject, if there's any words you guys would want to see filled, let me know and I'll try to make it happen ;)

Lunch was the one meal King Thorin _refused_ to miss.

Not because he was terribly hungry – unlike a certain short, fussy creature, the Dwarf could go a few hours without food. No, ever since Frodo Baggins had come to Erebor, Thorin made it a priority to spend at least one meal a day with his Hobbits.

Previously it was dinner that Thorin endeavoured to spend in his private chambers. But it was far too easy for him to be waylaid in order to finish the day’s work before everyone retired to bed. At first he had continued with this tradition, but oftentimes Frodo would be asleep before he even returned home, and the King wanted to make the small Hobbit a priority.

The first meal had happened quite by chance when a meeting meant to take place was abruptly postponed. The King had immediately left for his chambers, only to find Frodo and Bilbo both awake and eating. Though that shouldn’t have been the surprise it was – Hobbits were rarely without food, after all.

Frodo was still a bit skittish around the Dwarf, which was exactly why Thorin knew these moments were so important. From then on Thorin ensured Balin left time between meetings for a meal with his husband and ward. No matter how much councilours and guild members complained, the King refused to let go of the precious lunches.


	13. Mistake

Maybe it was a mistake, Bilbo thought sometimes, as he sat by a dying fire. Memories – irrepressible, unconquerable – kept the flames low. Higher, and it would overwhelm. Smoke choking his lungs, burning his nostrils. Heat in the air, suffocating, warming the skin. Bright burning lights of fire, lapping at thin tunics and biting exposed ankles.

Adventures were nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things, his father had always said. Made you late for dinner.

And they had made Bilbo late for far more than dinner.

He hadn’t survived the battle. Not really. Not all of him.

A part of him had been left behind, lost, never to be found.

Sometimes Bilbo thought he ought to rip open his own chest cavity, make sure his heart was there still, beating and steady. For truly, he did not think it was; how could it survive, how could anything endure all the pain, the sorrow, the loss?

A hand brushed under his night coat, feeling not for the first time for a beat. But the feeling was no longer comforting as it was once.

Thump, thump-thump, thump.

It wasn’t his heart. It was a sac of fluid, pumping blood and oxygen through his veins. It kept him breathing, it kept his body moving. But it was not his heart.

No, Bilbo lost that long ago.

When Bilbo had seen him fall. Seen his knees buckle beneath him, body unable to support its own weight.

 _Farewell, Master Burglar_.

Bilbo was never meant to hear those words, not from those lips.

_Go back to your books, your armchair._

But there was nothing to go back to. Bilbo had returned indeed, but not to the home he expected. Home was beyond his reach for evermore; this smial, this cold, empty smial, could not possibly be home. How had Bilbo ever wished to come back here, to the nothingness that awaited him?

_Plant your trees, watch them grow._

How could anything grow ever again, in a world of death and darkness? How could Bilbo ever nurture a growing sprout, when he couldn’t even save the one he – he –

_Thump-thump, thump._

No, that was not Bilbo’s heart. It was the painful reminder, every second, every breath, of the mistake he had made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched BOTFA last night. Needed to exorcise my angsty feels.


	14. Needles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was accidentally posted to my WIP Teach Me Your Ways originally, sorry for any confusion guys!!

“Scared of needles?”

“No,” Thorin grunted, glaring down at the lab assistant. Even sitting, Thorin was taller than the short, young man, which honestly did nothing to alleviate his unease. “Why?”

The blonde bit his lip, right cheek twitching as he suppressed a laugh. “You still haven’t given me your arm.”

Thorin looked down at the offending appendage, noticing it was still tucked protectively against his chest. His sleeve was already rolled up, exposing his inner elbow to be prodded and poked. Clenching his jaw, the man threw his arm out, looking over his opposite shoulder to avoid even the slightest hint of a pointed object.

A tight band squeezed Thorin’s bicep, a warning of what came next. Humming, the lab assistant began poking at his elbow crease, gloved touch soft and precise. As the man pulled away, Thorin flinched, bracing himself for what came next.

“You’ll just feel a cool wash,” the lab assistant murmured, flat tone indicating a rehearsed speech. Peeking one eye open, Thorin was relieved to see a small, wet cloth was being dragged against his skin in a circular motion, instead of the poking instrument he dreaded.

“I used to be terrified of needles,” the lab assistant revealed conversationally, looking up from his work to give Thorin an encouraging smile.

“I’m not scared,” Thorin insisted, unable to let go of his ego, especially in front of his cute, small, kind – er, professional stranger, _who was just doing his job_ , Thorin reminded himself.

“No?” His widening smile revealed his doubt, though instead of commenting further, he continued his own story. “I used to be so terrified, I’d start shaking. Made a huge fuss, I was a terrible patient!”

“Really?” Thorin’s lips twitched in spite of the situation, picturing the image painted for him.

“Oh, yes.” Fingers pressed against Thorin’s wrist, pressure light, but poised to hold his arm down if necessary. “Deep breath, now.”

Thorin inhaled sharply through his nose, teeth clenched until his jaw ached. But between the tight, pinching tourniquet and the warm, teasing touch on his wrist, Thorin was quite distracted from the sensation of the needle.

“How did you – how did you get over it?” he asked through gritted teeth, slightly ashamed he was still unable to look anywhere near his right arm.

“Went to school to become a phlebotomist!” the lab assistant chuckled, giving Thorin’s wrist a gentle, comforting squeeze before it removed, likely to switch tubes – and Thorin’s stomach twisted immediately at the thought; distraction, he needed a distraction.

“Why did you – take it?” he asked desperately.

“Oh, it was quite by mistake!” Even without looking, Thorin could tell the man was smiling softly. “I wanted to get into nursing, you see,” he confessed. “But the program was full, and I had applied to the phlebotomy program just in case.”

The tourniquet was removed, and while Thorin was tempted to sigh in relief, the lack of compression made the blood drawing more obvious. He squirmed in his seat, biting his lip, trying his hardest to ignore the small, focalized pressure.

“I didn’t think I could do it, being so terrified of needles and all. But it’s quite liberating, in a way – facing your fear head on.” There was a pause before he chirped, “All done!”

Blinking, Thorin looked over at his arm, half expecting to see a needle hanging out. Instead there was a small piece of white gauze, which the lab assistant was holding down with two fingers, his other hand full with the tubes of blood.

“That’s…it?” Thorin asked dazedly, watching as the lab assistant rotated his hand up and down, mixing the tubes. The man stared at a clock on the wall, brows gently furrowed and lips moving silently as he counted the time. He scribbled some things down onto the paper before turning back to his patient with a wide smile.

“Yes, if you could just please hold this,” he said with a jerk of his chin towards Thorin’s elbow. Fumbling slightly, Thorin did as told, trying to ignore the heat of the lab assistant’s fingers as they accidentally touched.

The man was wearing _gloves_ , for Mahal’s sake! He needed to get himself together.

“Now apply steady pressure for five minutes,” the lab assistant directed, voice returning to a flat, repetitive monotone as he applied tape over the gauze. “And you may take it off in fifteen minutes.” Thorin’s lip curled, knowing tearing it off his hair-covered arm later would be quite unpleasant, to say the least.

“Have a good day!” The lab assistant shot him a bright smile before turning back to the tubes, squinting his eyes as he wrote something on each label. Thorin stood from the stiff chair, grabbing his coat from the corner. But before he got more than a few steps out the door, he found himself turning around, only to run right into the man.

“Oh!” the lab assistant huffed as he stumbled back slightly. “May I help you?”  
Thorin gulped, unsure of what, exactly, he planned to do. The man was on duty, and the regulations between patients and workers were undoubtedly strict. Not that Thorin necessarily wanted to ask the man out; it was just a thought, an unnecessary reminder.

“Thank you,” Thorin said finally, disappointed he could not say more, but words no less genuine. Contented warmth spread through his chest as the man’s eyes absolutely lit up, undeniably pleased at the words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was absolutely terrified of needles before I became a phlebotomist. I had a patient while training at the Children's Hospital; poor girl couldn't have her blood taken without fainting. But I told her my story of overcoming my fears, and by the time it was finished, she couldn't even believe it! Her mum was thanking me profusely :) Anyone else scared of needles?


	15. Overindulgence

“Master Baggins.”

Thorin nudged the mass on the floor with a steel toe, raising a skeptical brow at the answering groan.

“I believe you have overindulged yourself,” Thorin commented as the Halfling struggled to sit up. His round cheeks were flushed a dark crimson, and as hazel eyes struggled to look up, Thorin noted their glassy gaze.

“No I haven’t,” Baggins drawled, words slurred as he reached a hand up. Likely, his intention was to wipe at his sweat-prickled skin, but the hand came nowhere near his face.

“Can you stand?” Thorin asked with a straight face, prodding at the creature’s plump backside. Baggins attempted to swat at the offending leg, but once again his aim proved untrue.

“Of course I can bloody well stand,” Baggins hissed, impertinent as always. The Dwarf took a pointed step back, allowing the Hobbit to do as he claimed unhindered. Baggins placed two hands on the floor, bracing his weight as he straightened his stubby legs. Back end in the air, Thorin watched with barely contained amusement as he attempted to rely on shaky legs.

“Oof!” Baggins groaned as he fell gracelessly back to the floor. “You know, the floor is rather comfy,” he claimed, stretching as if in leisure.

“Shall I leave you to rest, then?” Thorin asked courteously.

Baggins nodded emphatically, spreading out across the wooden floor. “I rather enjoy the idea of a night alone, finally,” he asserted, words far too loud to be true.

“By your leave, then, Master Baggins,” Thorin bid farewell, turning to leave. He didn’t get very far, however, before Baggins' small voice called out.

“Thorin?”

Stopping, the Dwarf deigned only to turn his head as he listened.

“Could you – maybe you could stay with me?” His voice was so quiet, so unsure, Thorin found himself walking back towards the small, intoxicated creature.

“You would have me lay on the floor?” Thorin tried to sound rightly affronted, though the humour of the situation likely lightened his harsh tone.

Baggins nodded drowsily, head falling back onto his arm in a makeshift pillow.

“I am a rightful King, you are aware?”

Baggins shrugged, hazel eyes flickering open as his lips spread into a lazy grin. “We don’t have Kings in the Shire, _Your Majesty_.” It appeared even after indulging in far too much mead, the Hobbit still had a sharp tongue, his words thick with cheek.

“I would much rather share the night with you in a bed,” Thorin admitted.

Baggins’ reaction was immediate: his closed eyes flew open, mouth falling to release a gasped “Oh!,” head jerking forwards. The movement proved too much, the Halfling dropping his no doubt pounding head into his hands with a hearty groan.

“I drank too much, Thorin,” the Hobbit admitted, pain dragging the words out pitifully.

“Come then, Master Baggins,” Thorin mollified, reaching down to grasp the Halfling’s arms, gradually pulling him to his feet. “The floor is no place to spend your night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for everyone who's been reading these :) your comments mean so much to me! <3


	16. Personation

“Bilbo!”

The Hobbit started, turning to give the Dwarf a short glare before setting off once more.

“I’m quite busy, actually on the way to –”

“What is this?” the King growled as Bilbo heard the careful scrape of metal on metal.

Bilbo turned around once more, hands on his hips as he huffed in annoyance. He found Thorin wielding a sword, ridiculously small in his thick, large hands. Smaller than a letter opener, in fact.

“Well what do you think it is?” Bilbo exclaimed, rolling his eyes as he began slowly walking backwards. He had a meeting to get to, after all. Unfortunately, Thorin easily kept pace.

“It looks like Orcrist,” Thorin drawled with a suspicious narrowing of his eyes. “Why would you have such a _tiny_ reproduction of my sword created?”

“It’s not _for_ you, you know, you ridiculous Dwarf.”

Thorin held the blade up to his eyes, carefully inspecting the weapon. He ran a finger along one side, no doubt feeling the dullness. But now that Bilbo saw it, the final product, he could not help but be amazed. Truly, it was a brilliant replica, if one overlooked the less-than-glowing steel, and the blunted edges.

“It is for training?” Thorin inquired, allowing a small, confused frown to mar his features. The blade was of lightweight and with dull edges, much like the blades given to young Dwarves learning to fight. But the King knew this was far too small for any Dwarf to yield, of age or not yet.

“It’s for Frodo,” Bilbo explained finally.

“You would give my son a sword you know not how to wield –”

“First of all, he is _not_ your son.” Bilbo interjected, uttering under his breath, “He’s not even _my_ son.”

“He is my _Hobbit son_ ,” Thorin growled dangerously.

“And second of all,” Bilbo continued unencumbered, “I know perfectly well how to wield a sword, Thorin Oakenshield. I believe I even saved your clot-headed life once using one, though oft times I wonder why!”

“I will teach him how to fight,” Thorin declared with a haughty tilt of his chin. “I will not have him flailing around like a fish out of water.” The King slowly lifted a brow, looking at his husband pointedly.

“Don’t you even dare!” Bilbo yelled, pointing a shaking finger at the Dwarf. “And he isn’t learning to fight, thank you very much! We’ve been through this before!”

“Then why the sword?” Thorin asked slowly, as though he thought himself quite clever, catching Bilbo in a lie.

“Because he wants to dress as you for All Hallow’s Eve, you oaf!”

“All Hallowed – what?”

At his husband’s blank stare, Bilbo huffed a dramatic sigh, meeting all but forgotten. “All Hallows’ Eve. We celebrate it every year in the Shire, before autumn turns to winter.”

“And may I inquire as to the point of this celebration, aside from drinking, eating, and partying, if there even is one?”

“You know, not _all_ of our celebrations are about drinking, eating, and partying!” Bilbo cried indignantly.

“So what do you do on this _All Hallows’ Eve_ , pray tell?” Thorin asked, crossing his arms confidently with a knowing smirk.

“Well – yes, yes, there may be _some_ drinking. We have to eat, I mean, we don’t forego our meals! And it is a celebration, so of course there’s a _little_ partying,” Bilbo conceded.

“Ah.” The King’s lips twitched. “Very different, indeed.”

“There are costumes!” Bilbo cried. “We all dress as someone we’d like to personate, such as a hero from legend.”

“And Frodo wishes – to personate me?” Thorin spoke slowly, brows furrowed in a frown, croaking voice barely over a whisper. He examined the sword in his hands with renewed meaning, appreciating the beautiful replication all the more. “Why should he wish to?” he asked, disbelieving.

Bilbo silently approached, watching his husband’s turmoil of self-doubt. “Because he worships you,” Bilbo spoke softly.

But Thorin was immediately shaking his head, banishing the thought as though it simply could not be accepted. “That is not what I meant,” Thorin claimed, though the slight break in his voice told otherwise. “Why would he – why would he dress at all?”

“All Hallows’ Eve is about showing death you are not afraid,” Bilbo explained. “To do so, we dress up in costume, bringing humour to such darkness.”

At this Thorin looked up from his careful tracing of mock-Orcrist’s delicate runes. Staring into his husband’s hazel eyes, he lifted a thick paw, easily covering the side of Bilbo’s face. “You have shown Death you are not afraid,” he reminded gently, fingertips tracing an old scar contrasting the Hobbit’s soft features. “And you needed no costume to do so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solutionforreality suggested Halloween and Shiningheart_of_ThunderClan wanted more Papa!Thorin ☺ thanks guys!


	17. Quill

“Very good, Frodo,” Thorin murmured to the small Hobbit sitting on his knee. The child leaned forward over the desk, tongue caught between his teeth as he concentrated. The quill clenched in his hand shivered slightly with the effort to make each stroke perfect.

Frodo suddenly flipped the paper over, seconds before a voice called, “What’s this, then?”

Thorin started, jumping up in his seat and jostling the little faunt with the movement. The boy just laughed, always finding amusement in moments such as these. Of course he would, Thorin thought mulishly; he was a co-conspirator when it came to Hobbity stealth.

“Nothing!” Dwarf and faunt called at once, both turning to Bilbo with wide, blue eyes. Bilbo crossed his arms, chin tilting down and brows lifting up in a look of total disbelief.

“You’re not fooling anyone,” Bilbo informed them, before sauntering away, throwing one last suspicious look over his shoulder for good measure.

 

“Uncle Bilbo!” Frodo threw his arms around Bilbo’s waist, squeezing tightly before pulling away. “Happy birthday!” he cried, shoving a sealed letter at his elder.

Bilbo laughed, reaching a hand out to ruffle Frodo’s hair. “Happy birthday to you too, lad.”

In the Shire, Hobbits only gave gifts on their birthday, but in Erebor, people were _given_ gifts. Both Hobbit and Dwarf were confused by each other’s strange customs, but it was agreed – at least within their little family – that both traditions would be honoured.

“To my… _second favouritest uncle_ ,” Bilbo read slowly, fixing his husband with an unimpressed glare. The King seemed suddenly interested in the nearest wall, turning around to perform a mighty important examination as his shoulders silently shook.

“I’m just kidding, Uncle Bilbo!” Frodo exclaimed, tugging the gift back from his relative’s hand to break the seal. “See?” The papers were once again shoved at Bilbo, with Frodo pointing a very helpful finger at the first line.

“To my _most_ favouritest… _Hobbit_ uncle,” Bilbo recited.

“You’re my most favouritest Hobbit uncle,” Frodo told him very seriously. “And Uncle Thorin is my most favouritest Dwarf uncle!”

The King whipped around, apparently not having heard this revelation before. He stared at the small creature as though the child had declared his undying love.

“I thank you, Frodo,” Thorin said slowly, words deep and husky with emotion. Bilbo rolled his eyes, far too used to his husband’s dramatics.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered. The Consort continued reading the letter, wrapping an arm around his ward to bring the boy closer. It was promises of love, heartfelt well wishes, and thanks for all Bilbo had done. As he finished, the Hobbit knelt down, pulling Frodo into a tight hug. “Thank you, my boy,” he whispered.

“There’s more,” Frodo whispered back, urgency lacing his voice.

Obligingly, Bilbo pulled away, withdrawing the second piece of parchment. “Oh, my boy, it’s beautiful,” he complimented, rewarded with Frodo’s bright grin. “Ah, what is it?” he asked carefully, unable to actually discern the drawing, but still appreciative.

“It’s Uncle Bilbo and the Trolls!” Frodo chirped.

“Ah, I see now!” Bilbo exclaimed.

Thorin came up behind him, large nose brushing away curls as he murmured in his ear, voice barely perceptible. “I do not.”

“See, I’m the red one…” Bilbo explained, pointing to the oddly shaped figure in the middle of the paper. Truly, he was going to have a little talk with the boy – he was not that plump! Perhaps now, he would relent, but certainly not on the quest! “And those grey, ah… Well, those are the trolls.”

“I see now,” Thorin drawled, uncertainty still lacing his tone.

“Well, I’m just going to have to add this to the book!” Bilbo declared proudly, ruffling a beaming Frodo’s hair.

“Really, Uncle Bilbo?” he asked eagerly.

“Well, of course! This is a masterpiece! Can you draw more?” The faunt ducked his head bashfully, though he still grinned with excitement.

“Why did you draw this scene?” Thorin asked, earning a sharp elbow to his ribs. His grunt of pain was heartlessly ignored.

Frodo took no offense at the question, and certainly the King did not intend any. “It’s my favouritest,” he disclosed.

“It’s your favourite,” Bilbo corrected, this time being the one to earn a (far gentler) reprimand.

“It’s my favourite,” Frodo parroted. “Uncle Bilbo had no sword or axe or anything. And he’s small, like me.” Frodo looked to floor shyly, big toe scuffing the floor. “Even though we’re small, we can still be heroes like Uncle Thorin.”

Bilbo was cooing immediately, dropping down to wrap Frodo in a tight embrace once more. Soon the two, small figures were enclosed by strong Dwarf arms as the King knelt as well, holding his Hobbits close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Papa!Thorin, Shiningheart_of_ThunderClan! (Seriously, who can resist?)


	18. Raise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So short T.T Sorry guys

Thorin wrapped his arms his husband, hands resting on the Hobbit’s plump stomach. Bilbo all but collapsed into the embrace, burning eyes blissfully falling shut.

“Finally asleep?” Thorin whispered, voice barely audible for fear of waking the slumbering form.

Bilbo nodded slowly, mumbling a soft, “Nightmare.”

“Then come to bed now, azyung.” Thorin pulled Bilbo out of the room, careful to close the heavy stone door as lightly as possible. The Hobbit silently trudged back to bed, pulling the covers up to his chin.

“He needs some time,” Thorin comforted, feeling his husband’s silent distress. “His parents knew best, and they chose you.” Bilbo sniffed, wrapping his arms around the Dwarf once Thorin lay down beside him. “I have faith in you, ghivashel.”

Bilbo gave his husband a gentle squeeze, nuzzling in closer. “We’ll raise him together,” he murmured. “Our family.”


	19. Snowball

Something colliding with the back of Thorin’s head had the King whipping around, Orcrist drawn. Another attack came immediately, and before the battle-hardened warrior even had a chance to dodge the blow, he found himself with a face full of cold, hard wetness. Spluttering, the King wiped his eyes free, gloved hand coming away covered in snow.

“What in Mahal’s name?” he growled, glaring out into the vast snow-covered field.

A giggle came from his right. Spinning, the King turned just in time to see a small figure appear out of _nowhere_ before running down field. The tiny frame gave away the creature instantly.

“Frodo!” Thorin yelled, running after his Hobbit ward. “We must get inside –”

The King stopped short as he was pelted with _three_ balls of hard, clumped snow.

“Run, Frodo, run!” The Consort’s cry was unmistakable, golden curls popping up behind a snowy fortress before ducking down. Frodo ran as fast as his little legs could take him, and Thorin watched, flabbergasted, as he dove behind the stronghold with his elder cousin.

“Bilbo, what are you doing?” he yelled, charging towards them with heavy, angry steps.

“We have come to take your throne,” Bilbo chirped merrily, jumping up for a moment. “O Mighty King!”

The Dwarf’s jaw fell in shock, a perfect target as Frodo’s sweet, innocent face appeared, right before both Hobbits lobbed their balls of snow.

Thorin threw up his sword, and he was lucky enough to dodge _some_ , but the Hobbits’ aimed proved true and fast. His face appeared to be the foremost target, perhaps to cloud his vision and encourage disorientation.

Ducking, the King hurriedly packed together a snowball; the fire ceased for a moment, and likely the enemy was doing the same. Still kneeling, Thorin squinted across the field. Aimed for his target, the Dwarf threw his arm back before dealing a powerful blow. A satisfactory squeal came from behind the snow fortress, followed by a very angry Consort slowly standing up. The ball had hit his plump little nose, but no amount of snow could conceal his glare.

“You’re dead, Thorin Oakenshield!” the Hobbit yelled.

The King found himself grinning, adrenaline pumping at the promised duel. There was a pile of snow near the gates – shoveled to make a path for the entrance of Erebor. It was much larger than the measly pile the Hobbits had created, and Thorin raced towards it, zigzagging a path to avoid incoming blows. Leaping over the mound, he ducked his head between his shoulders, majestically rolling into hiding. Immediately he began clumping dislodged snow together, making sure to pack it tightly. Though he did make a pile of smaller, looser snowballs for Frodo – clearly the boy was being held against his will; Thorin would have to bring him back to the right side.

As another liege of snowballs flew over his hunched back, Thorin grinned to himself.

 

The game was afoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost forgot today :O  
> I do plan to expand on this - who wants Fíli and Kíli to join?? - but that won't happen until next week, maybe. So when I do, I will post it as a separate one-shot.


	20. Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still need to fill V, Y, and Z, so if there's anything you guys want to see, let me know!

Dwarves were not fond of tea.

As with any rule, there was exception, of course; Dori being a prime example. But on the whole, Dwarves were not tea-drinkers. No, they were accustomed to a much stronger drink. Mead was easily found at every meal the Dwarves indulged in – and eating thrice daily was enough, as any well-adjusted, non-fussy being across Arda would agree.

Of course, that left out Hobbits.

Abdicating his throne and retiring to the Shire was sure to be a strange, final adventure. Adjusting would take time, and there was bound to be a few cultural mishaps along the way. Hobbits did not take kindly to strangers, and it would take no small amount of effort to prove himself. And no, his heroic feats would not help in this; as his husband politely reminded him, informing everyone he lead twelve Dwarves (and one Hobbit) to battle a fire-breathing drake would not go over well. Except with the children, of course.

Thus, Thorin had expected to be scrutinized and even ridiculed. He steeled himself for disparaging remarks and dirty looks. The Baggins and Took clans would chase him with their gardening tools, and the Thain (Mahal, was Thorin ever blessed, for the leader of the Hobbits was a Took as well, and Bilbo’s grandfather no less!) would have an order for his head the moment he stepped a foot into the Shire.

Yes, all of this was expected in Thorin’s mind.

What he had not expected was all the _tea_.

Seven feasts of _food_ was not enough for the strange creautres – tea must be had at every one, as well! They even devoted an entire meal in the afternoon just for the eternally damned drink. Bilbo made a right fuss about creating the perfect pot, and if Thorin tried to add more than two lumps of sugar to the bitter drink, his reaching paw was given a hearty smack.

Apparently if Thorin wished to win over the hearts of the Shirelings, he was to perfect the art of making tea.

He need not make amends, or explain the desperation that had led to Bilbo being thrust into an adventure. His lineage mattered not, nor did his feats. He could exchange his heavy layers for tight, short, Halfing clothes, garden until his skin turned a warm tan, or even debate the consistency of soil with the Gamgee’s.

All was for naught if he could not properly steep a pot of tea when Bag End had guests.

 

Thorin’s first test as tea-preparing, Shire-acclimated Dwarf was with the two people in the Shire whose opinions mattered most: Gerontius Took, Thain of the Shire, and his wife, Adamanta Chubb.

“Was the water cold first?” Bilbo hissed as he popped into the kitchen, leaving behind his chuckling grandparents.

Thorin grunted from where he crouched down, carefully watching for a gentle boil. A steady stream of bubbles must slowly rise to the surface; any hotter, and the tea will taste dulled. Bilbo dallied for but a moment before grabbing another tray of lemon cakes and leaving the Dwarf to fulfill his duties alone.

Once the water was adequately heated – and no more – Thorin grabbed the pot and carefully tipped it into the teapot. Then he measured a precise four teaspoons of loose leaves, set a serving tray with milk, sugar, teacups, and miniature spoons. The cups were too small for his fumbling, Dwarvish hands to handle, and tiny cutlery looked ridiculous between his large, brawny fingers.

Bilbo fidgeted nervously under the table as his husband approached laden with the tray, while Gerontius and Adamanta watched with carefully appraising eyes. For three terribly long minutes they chatted idly, or at least three of them did so; Thorin was too busy counting the time to pay much attention. At three minutes exactly, he carefully stood from his chair and began pouring out the tea. Thankfully here, Bilbo was free to intervene; it would due to have Thorin spill the blasted mugs simply because he could not grip the too small handles as etiquette dictated.

Gerontius added both a spoonful of sugar and milk to his, while Adamanta preferred hers with only milk. The Dwarf vaguely wondered if the lack of sweetness was indicative of her personality. Bilbo loved his grandparents dearly – in fact, they were the few Hobbits he actually seemed fond of. But so far, Thorin had been regarded with cool, distant, calculating gazes.

As the elderly couple took their first sips, Thorin felt his neck prickle with sweat. Bilbo’s own cup lay untouched as he watched his family carefully, hand finding its way to grip Thorin’s painfully tight under the table.

With eerie synchronicity, Gerontius and Adamanta delicately placed their cups down on the accompanying saucers. Turning to each other, the two shared a curt nod, before turning to the outsider.

“Thorin,” Adamanta spoke, more of a declaration than natural conversation. “What a lovely cup of chamomile.”

The Dwarf felt a painfully held breath whoosh out immediately, though a pinch from Bilbo had him soon schooling in his expression.

“My thanks,” he replied as smoothly as he could. “Perhaps one day I will be able to try yours.”

“You challenge me?” Adamanta huffed, turning to Bilbo, who frankly looked quite mortified now. But her cool veneer soon cracked as she gave her grandson a winning smile. “You have chosen well, my boy,” she congratulated.


	21. Uncle

When Frodo first arrived, he was incredibly withdrawn. Always he clung to Bilbo’s tunic, and more oft than not, he would hide his face in his cousin’s leg. Bilbo was the only one able to communicate with the faunt, always in hushed, soft tones.

Thorin understood the trauma Frodo had suffered was great. Dutifully, he kept a distance from Frodo, lest he create feelings of unease. Dwarves were known as terribly loud, from their heavy footfalls, to their oft-raised voices, uproarious laughs, and boisterous snoring. It was his noisiness, perhaps, that Bilbo complained about the most. Thorin never took his husband’s quips to heart, but after Frodo arrived, the Dwarf made sure to imitate Hobbit quietness. It was no easy feat, but one look at the small, skittish child, and the necessity of the task was impossible to ignore.

Despite not speaking to Frodo directly, Bilbo encouraged Thorin to interact as much as possible. He would converse with his husband as usual, provide aid in the kitchen, sit in the garden, read a book aloud every night, often accompanied by a deep song. Bilbo said it would help acclimatize the fauntling to his Dwarvish housemate.

For the longest time, Thorin was convinced all was for naught. Even as the weeks eked on, and Frodo began opening up more – whispering to his cousin, travelling through Bag End on his own, accompanying them on trips to the markets – he would not talk to Thorin. The Dwarf would have thought Frodo ignoring him altogether, if it was not for the wide-eyed stares the fauntling sent him.

Always Bilbo was there to assuage the Dwarf’s self-doubt. Frodo was still healing, _and it is quite a shock, you must admit, to suddenly live with a Dwarf!_ he would say. Even if he hardly believed it, Thorin still endeavoured to make the orphaned boy happy at Bag End; never would anything come before Frodo’s comfort.

Bilbo was quite the fussy Hobbit, and while he sometimes found Thorin returning home from a day at the forge – clothes clinging from sweat, hair tied back from his face, shirtsleeves rolled up – to be quite the aphrodisiac, Frodo’s arrival had put an end to such things. Now Thorin was shipped off to the bath with nary a kiss hello, scrubbing off the day’s grime alone.

Tonight Thorin returned much later than expected; he could only hope the Hobbits had left something for him to eat, as the Dwarf was not quite adept at cooking. As silently as possible, he shut the round door to Bag End, habitually unbuckling his boots immediately. He did so before even shucking off his coat, for if he ever made the mistake of treading towards the coatrack with his boots still on…Well, even one of Durin’s blood couldn’t help but shiver at the thought.

But then there was a Hobbit rushing towards him, arms on hips and scowling in annoyance. Thorin’s eyes widened immediately, and he gestured emphatically to the boots lined neatly against the front wall.

“Well, come on, then!” Bilbo exclaimed, grabbing the Dwarf’s forearm to drag him down the hall. Thorin would assert it was his confusion that allowed such a small creature to push him around so.

“What are you doing?” Thorin hissed, tugging his arm out of his husband’s grasp to replace it with his hand.

“We’ve been waiting for you!” Bilbo explained, only confusing the Dwarf further. They were not going in the direction of the kitchen – in fact, they were headed towards…

Bilbo stopped in front of Frodo’s room, rapping softly on the wood before nudging the door open. Thorin stayed back, lingering in the doorway. He had never been in Frodo’s room, not since the boy had arrived. But then Bilbo was waving at him impatiently, as though this were not the life-changing moment Thorin felt it was.

The Hobbit rolled his eyes, as though he could hear the Dwarf’s (utterly reasonable, and not at all theatrical) thoughts.

“Frodo, boy,” Bilbo murmured softly. “Did you have something to ask?”

The boy was curled up in his bed, impossibly small amongst a pile of blankets. After a moment, Frodo looked up at Thorin, gaze half-lidded and voice muzzy with sleep. “Uncle Thorin, would you read to me, please?”

Bilbo turned to Thorin with a triumphant smile, but the Dwarf could not lift his gaze from the precious creature before him. He sat down on the edge of the bed with great tenderness, watching for any sign his presence was unwelcome. But instead the fauntling shuffled a bit closer, eager for the reading to commence.

Thorin’s voice lulled the boy to sleep in mere minutes; it was far later than Frodo was supposed to stay awake, and had Thorin known his nightly readings in the sitting room had become a ritual, he would have left the forge hours ago. He allowed himself a single stroke through the boy’s soft curls, amazed at the night’s turn of events.

“Uncle Thorin,” he repeated, barely able to form the breathtaking words.

“He wouldn’t sleep until _Uncle Thorin_ read to him,” Bilbo informed the dumbfounded Dwarf, pressing a gentle kiss to his husband’s temple. “Now come; you smell absolutely horrible.”

As the door to Frodo’s room was tugged shut, Thorin loomed over his small husband, smirking teasingly. “And what horrible things would you like to do to me for it?”

Immediately Bilbo’s face turned bright red, scandalized wide eyes turning towards the fauntling’s room as though expecting a sleeping Frodo to have heard. “Thorin!” he scolded prudishly, but the Dwarf simply tugged his husband to their bedroom, knowing all propriety was stripped from the Hobbit at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just Y and Z to fill....just Y and Z... wow, I can't believe this is almost done!


	22. Vermin

Thorin slammed the door to the master bedroom shut, back pressed against the closed frame. Taking a deep, calming breath, he exhaled through clenched teeth. Once he had collected himself, he pulled out his phone and dialed.

“Hullo, Thorin –”

“Bilbo!” Thorin hissed, pressing his ear against the door, listening for approaching steps. “I came home to find your nephew –”

Bilbo’s longer suffering preceded his exasperated, interjecting words, “He’s your nephew, too, Thorin.”

“– Hoarding vermin in the house!” he finished, as though uninterrupted.

“Hoarding?” Bilbo asked, confusion clear in his voice. “Well, what does he have, exactly?”

“There is a…rabbit,” Thorin said finally.

There was a moment of silence. Thorin could imagine his husband’s lips pursing as he pondered the words. “Just the one, then?” he replied, sounding far too calm.

“Yes,” Thorin grunted, intending to continue on about how utterly _wrong_ this was when his husband interrupted once more.

“A bunny,” he deadpanned.

“ _Vermin_ ,” Thorin corrected with a scathing hiss. “How could you allow this?”

Bilbo sucked his teeth, claiming, “You agreed, Thorin.”

“I did no such thing!” he yelled immediately.

“Well yes, actually, you did. I asked if Frodo could get a pet and you said – and I quote – that he could ‘get whatever he wants,’” Bilbo maintained, prattling on, “You’re lucky I didn’t _him_ that, or who knows what he would have brought home!”

Thorin scowled into the phone. “I do not recall saying this,” he insisted tersely.

“Well, you did,” Bilbo said calmly.

“And would this happen to have been after you used your fingers and ton–”

“Thorin Oakenshield!” Bilbo exclaimed, followed by a rustling on his end. Likely he had leapt from his desk in scandal. His next words came muffled, a hand likely covering the receiver as he whispered, “I will not hear such filthy language!”

“Filthy?” Thorin exclaimed. “What about what you said last night in bed, about how you wanted to –”

Thorin was cut off as a loud, beeping dial tone rang in his ear. Placing the phone back in his pocket, he chuckled as he contemplated his husband’s strange sense of propriety. But all amusement quickly drained as he heard Frodo’s voice approaching.

“Uncle Thorin!” the boy cried, far too merrily. “Come meet Sam!”


	23. Watering Hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation of the entry called Needles. Thorin and Bilbo have previously met, when Bilbo took Thorin's blood.

Dwalin looked over Thorin’s shoulder, eyes narrowed as he searched. Thorin, oblivious, stared at the frothy mug in front of him.

“Who’s that?” Dwalin asked, chin jerking forward.

Thorin frowned, looking over his shoulder with genuine confusion. When he saw who Dwalin was talking about, however, he stiffened. Turning back with nary a glance at his friend, he returned to brooding at his drink. “Don’t know,” he grunted.

Dwalin snorted. “Ye either know ‘im, or you want to,” his friend insisted. As Thorin mulled over his options – lying through his teeth or _lying through his teeth_ – Dwalin continued, “Ye best go and talk to ‘im, before I do it for ye.”

At that, Thorin’s head shot up. “You wouldn’t dare,” he growled.

Unperturbed, Dwalin grinned as he chugged more ale. “Wouldn’t I?”

Before he could second-guess it, Thorin found himself walking towards the bar. Even though they had met for a few short minutes (and admittedly, Thorin spent most of that time with his eyes squeezed shut), that golden head of curls was unmistakable. Not to mention, glancing over his shoulder every few minutes throughout the evening to make sure it was the same man had certainly helped.

And then the man was turning his head, turning towards Thorin – he found himself stumbling slightly, the contents of his drink sloshing onto his hand.

“Shit!” Thorin mumbled, switching hands to wipe the liquid on his pants. By the time he looked back up, the lab assistant was facing forward again.

 _If he saw that, Mahal strike me down_ , Thorin entreated silently.

When nothing happened – not that anything ever did when he made such prayers, which was probably more often than it should be – Thorin continued forward. He made it to the adjacent seat without any trouble, placing his mug carefully on the counter before sliding into the stool. Luckily he was quite tall, unlike the man beside him, so he didn’t manage to mess this part up.

And then they sat in total silence. For _minutes_. Thorin began to doubt his plan; the man was sitting in a bar, alone, on a Thursday night, after all. He likely wanted to be alone.

With that realization, it only made sense that Thorin would suddenly blurt out, “You take really good blood.”

The man started, turning to Thorin with wide eyes. Then he immediately looked all around them, finally returning to Thorin with a frown, as though he couldn’t believe he was the one being addressed.

“Ah, pardon me?”

Thorin simply _stared_ at the poor, helpless man – who was becoming increasingly perplexed – for a full minute, before finally saying, “You took my blood…and it was really good.”

This time it was Thorin’s chance to be stared at, though admittedly, he likely enjoyed it far more than the man.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said at last, words painfully drawn out. “It’s been a long day. Did you – were you at the clinic today?”

“No,” Thorin admitted, cursing his friend more and more as the awkwardness went on. “No, it was… a few days ago.”

“Oh,” the man said tiredly, before straightening and half-smiling. “Oh, right, of course. I remember you now.”

“No, you don’t,” Thorin uttered morosely.

The man sighed, though at least he admitted it. “No, I don’t.” He chuckled self-deprecatingly, adding, “Did I mention it was a long day?”

“Yes,” Thorin said, quickly adding, “But you are welcome to say it again, as many times as you need.”

Thorin could have smacked himself. In fact, he _vowed_ to do so when he got home. The man looked at him as though he had said something truly offensive.

“Oh. Um. Well,” he stammered. “…Thanks. I guess.”

“Do you go to bars often after work?” _Why, why why._

“I try not to make a habit of it,” the man snarked.

Thorin scowled down at his drink, prompting a gasp from the lab assistant.

“Oh! I remember you now!”

Thorin looked up, though even those words, and the relieved look on the man’s face did nothing to alleviate his glower.

“Yes, now I see it!” he exclaimed, gesturing vaguely at Thorin’s face. “You look so different when you’re not…angry.”

“I’m not angry,” Thorin grumped bitterly. “And I wasn’t angry then, either.”

“No, that’s right; you were a bit nervous, weren’t you?” The man smiled at him, though his words were not said unkindly.

“I do not like needles,” Thorin admitted painfully.

The man chuckled softly. “So, how’s the arm?”

“Fully recovered,” Thorin replied, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Though I don’t think my hair will ever grow back.”

The man’s eyes dropped down to Thorin’s arms, where a partially rolled-up sleeve revealed furred skin. “Sorry about that,” he apologized with a sheepish grin. “Just tell them you’re allergic to the tape next time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Thorin mumbled. The dreaded silence came back, the noise of the bar growing that much louder. Thorin sloshed his mug around while the man – who, Thorin realized, he _still_ didn’t know the name of – picked at the buttons on his maroon coat. Thorin chugged down the rest of his ale, reveling in the liberating, sensation flowing through his veins.

“Sorry, I’m not very good at this,” the man blurted out suddenly.

“At what?” Thorin grinned in a way he could only hope looked becoming. “Flirting?”

“I was going to say small talk, actually,” the man mumbled. Then he was groaning suddenly, dropping his head into his hands. “I’m sorry, that was a lie,” he said from his hands. “I just – I didn’t know if you were…” He didn’t look up as he gestured vaguely between the both of them. “And I didn’t want to _assume_ , and I thought at first you were just lying to me, but then I remembered you, and you’re really attractive and I –” he cut off his rant, sighing heavily. “Did I mention it was a long day?” he asked, daring an embarrassed peek at Thorin.

“Do you want to grab some coffee?” Thorin asked immediately, finding a resurgence of hope at _you’re really attractive_.

The man laughed softly, giving Thorin a warm, genuine smile. “I would love to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gahh, I really don't know about this one *wallowing in self-flagellation*  
> I hope you liked it though badskippy!


	24. Xanthochromism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xanthochromism: a condition of skin, fur, or feathers in which yellow coloration predominates

“You know I don’t like it here,” Bilbo muttered, clutching his husband’s hand. “I hope this is worth it.”

“Peace, ghivashel.” The King squeezed the Hobbit’s hand comfortingly. “I wish to show you something, then we may leave right away if you should like.”

Bilbo licked his chapped lips, looking around the stony surroundings. The last time he had been here, everything was shrouded in thick, cloying mist. Snow covered the stairs, and a sheet of ice froze across the valley. This was where he had found Thorin, lying far too still, soaked in blood, so much blood –

A cawing blessedly interrupted Bilbo’s memories before they could take hold. Blinking owlishly, he looked up, spying a large raven gliding towards them. Obligingly Thorin raised an arm, on which the raven perched.

“Hail, Roäc,” the King greeted with a small bow of his head.

Bilbo followed suit, murmuring a gentle, “Good morning.”

“You are here to see him?” the bird asked in halting Westron.

Again, Thorin dipped his head respectfully. “If we may,” he requested.

The raven set off without another word, a flutter of glossy wings. Thorin started off immediately, coaxing his hesitant husband with a gentle tug.

“Who are we seeing?” Bilbo asked, puzzled as to who would be up here, aside from the birds.

“Did I not tell you?” The King poorly feigned innocence, blue eyes too wide and lips too curved.

“Tell me what!” the Hobbit demanded, quickening his stride to come alongside the teasing Dwarf.

Thorin mulled over revealing the confidential knowledge, but could not last long when faced with his husband’s doe eyes and pouting lips. “Roäc is a proud father,” the King divulged.

Bilbo gasped, squeezing Thorin’s hand in excitement. “Truly?” he exclaimed, grinning widely. “That’s amazing!”

The bird in question croaked as he swooped in between the pair. “Hurry up!”

“Very proud,” Thorin muttered darkly, leaning into Bilbo, “But no less impatient.” The Hobbit sniggered into his hand, carefully avoiding the raven’s black gaze.

“Close enough!” the bird snapped suddenly, perching on a ledge just over Bilbo’s height.

The Hobbit stood up on the tips of his toes, silently thankful it wasn’t any higher. Thorin stood behind Bilbo, hands coming to rest on the Hobbit’s hips for unnecessary support. The King’s breath tickled Bilbo neck as they both peeked over, spying out black forms nestled together. Roäc chirped, and the large black mass ruffled its feathers, languidly stretching before moving of the way. Underneath the mother were two small black babies, impossibly fluffy. Bilbo cooed instantly, a lover of all creatures big and small. The two younglings peeped adorably, standing on tiny black-pink legs to follow after their mother, the movement revealing a third mass of fluff. The third baby ruffled his tiny wings indignantly, slowly pulling to his feet to follow his siblings. But whereas the others were all an inky black, this one was a beautiful, vivid yellow.

“Thorin!” Bilbo exclaimed, pointing at the uniquely coloured creature. “Look!”

The King chuckled, gently brushing his nose into Bilbo’s curls. “I see, ghivashel,” he murmured quietly. “We do not know what has caused this, but he is in perfect health.”

“Wow,” Bilbo gasped, mesmerized by the extraordinary occurrence. “They’re beautiful, Roäc,” Bilbo said, turning to the father.

The raven’s chest immediately puffed with pride as he looked down upon his young, crowding around their mother and chirping weakly. The yellow youngling stood out amongst his dark brothers, yet it was clear no distinction was made; the siblings brushed against each other affectionately, their mother fussing over their fluffy coating before bringing the three in close, sharing the heat of her body with her precious offspring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think this is how xanthochromism actually works, but....shh!


	25. Yoga

“I thought you said this was going to be relaxing,” Thorin huffed as his muscles and joints protested vehemently.

“Well, that’s what everyone says,” his husband grunted, sharing in Thorin’s struggle.

Currently both Thorin and Bilbo had their legs spread apart, one hand on an ankle with their other arm pointed towards the ceiling. Triangle pose, the yoga instructor told them. The title was certainly underwhelming creativity-wise, but the stretch in his groin was atrocious.

Every so often, Bilbo got what he called a “Tookish mood.” He became restless with their routine lifestyle, and dragged his poor husband into different activities. Last month it was hiking; they had barely made it two hours before Bilbo grew sick of travel-convenient granola bars and headed back home for the sake of his stomach. The month before that, he had insisted on finally learning to swim. Bilbo had a great fear of water – something he swears his parents ingrained in him – and had even bought two swim vests. Thorin was a proficient swimmer, but his husband insisted on safety first. However, it was all for naught; when the swimming instructor moved the class to the deep end, Bilbo suddenly lost all Tookish inhibition and made for the change room.

All in all, the couple had a good track record of trying, and failing, at new things. Thus, when the adventurous mood had struck him this time ‘round, Bilbo chose yoga. Easy, relaxing, anybody could do it – or so they were led to believe.

“And move down into plank.” The blond-haired instructor moved with inhuman grace, making everything look impossibly easy.

Thorin took a moment of reprieve, standing up and stretching his arms as he watched his husband. Instead of fluidly moving his legs back as others in the class, Bilbo fell to his knees with a soft grunt. Shaking out his sore arms, Bilbo moved his feet back, stretching until his body was as straight as he could make it. Then he pushed up on his arms, freezing in a push-up position. Finally Thorin followed suit, holding back a chuckle as his husband’s face scrunched up in concentrated effort. Already sweat beaded across Bilbo’s forehead, and his belly trembled from the squeezing of his muscles.

“Having trouble, dearest?” Thorin asked with a wolfish grin.

Bilbo glared at his husband out of the corner of his eye. “None at all,” he managed between clenched teeth.

“Now we move into cat position. Continue to breath slowly, in and out through your nose,” the instructor reminded, exaggerating his breaths for everyone to copy.

Both husbands collapsed to the ground, as graceful a transition as they could manage. Once on their hands in knees, they arched their backs, bellies curving towards the floor. Thorin’s gaze was helpless against following the beautiful curve of Bilbo’s form, ending at his plump backside.

“I didn’t realize we were already versed in yoga,” Thorin teased.

Bilbo’s eyes widened in shock, his already flushed face heating even more. Thorin received a sound smack, though his husband’s flustered reaction was more than worth it.

“Thorin Oakenshield!” Bilbo hissed. “You stop that right now!”

“And up into downward facing dog.”

Bilbo froze a moment, blinking in bewilderment as everyone stood, bending at the waist and splaying their hands out on the floor. Refusing to meet Thorin’s amused gaze, Bilbo got into position. Unlike the plank or triangle position, Bilbo’s limbs didn’t shake, nor did he appear off-balance.

“You’re very good at this one,” Thorin pointed out slyly. Bilbo’s lips pursed tightly, obviously holding back a scathing remark. “It is no wonder, with all the practice you –”

Thorin grunted as a large foot kicked him in the side, causing the man to lose balance and collapse. Bilbo, on the other hand, remained perfectly stable, proving Thorin’s words all the more.

“Slowly walk your hands to your toes,” the instructor drawled.

Thorin sighed, instead standing back up and then reaching down to the floor. His knees had to bend quite a lot for this to be possible, but at least Bilbo was struggling the same.

“Now spread your legs and bring your head to the floor.”

“Did you sign us up for yoga,” Thorin panted lightly between breaths, “Or sex classes?”

Bilbo made a strangled noise, bringing his head down between his outspread legs.

“I don’t believe we’ve tried this one yet,” Thorin went on, unabashed. “It’s already my new favourite.”

“You can try whatever you bloody want,” Bilbo hissed, throwing his head up to pin his husband with a heated glare, brows furrowed and lips puckered. “If you just _shut up_!”

Suffice to say, Thorin didn’t say another word for the entire class.


	26. Zen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last entry!!! This was so much fun. Guys, thank you so much to everyone who's read through all my silly entries, and kudos'd and bookmarked and everything. And a special thank you to everyone who has commented, and even left a few ideas/prompts. I really, really appreciated it, your comments literally make my day! <3

“Bilbo!” Thorin called as he approached their bedroom. “What happened to the –” He cut himself off as he pushed open the door, only to find his tiny husband pushing against their king-sized bed, panting and sweating.

“What in Mahal’s name are you doing?” Thorin cursed, quickly striding over to an exhausted Bilbo. He unceremoniously pushed the man onto the bed, arms crossed as he impatiently awaited an answer.

“Rearranging the furniture,” Bilbo revealed between panting breaths.

“I can see that,” Thorin grumbled. “And what, pray tell, was wrong with our previous arrangement?”

“It wasn’t – you know,” Bilbo waved a hand in the air lazily. “Zen.”

“Zen,” Thorin repeated slowly.

“Yeah, like feng shui. We were getting negative energy.”

“We were getting negative energy…from the _furniture_ ,” Thorin deadpanned.

Bilbo glared, though his exhaustion meant the attempt was half-hearted. “Not from the furniture itself, you oaf,” Bilbo snarked. “The arrangement was blocking the flow of energy.”

Thorin crawled on the bed beside his husband, placing the back of his hand against Bilbo’s sweaty brow.

“What’re you doing?” Bilbo mumbled tiredly, pushing the hand away.

“I think you’ve worked yourself into a fever,” Thorin intoned seriously. “You’re delirious, Bilbo.”

“Oh, for Yavanna’s – it’s feng shui, Thorin! Maybe if you picked up an actual book once in a while, you’d know what it was!”

“My apologies,” Thorin spat. “It must be so hard, having such an _uneducated_ husband.”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic!” Bilbo rolled his eyes, giving his husband a loving smack. “Now help me move the furniture.”

“I’m afraid I’m unable,” Thorin informed him, propping his head on his hand as he stretched out comfortably. “I have yet to read an instructional manusl on proper furniture-moving procedures.”

“Are you really going to be this difficult?”

“Could you please use smaller words?” Thorin asked, lips tugged into a mock-serious line. “I’m terribly _unread_.”

“Alright,” Bilbo groaned, making to get up. “I’ve had enough of you.”

Thorin’s arm flew out, wrapping around his husband’s stomach and pulling the man back to bed and against his chest. Nose brushing damp, unruly curls out of the way, he murmured huskily, “Well, I haven’t had enough of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked these, make sure to check out my other works! ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Check me out on tumblr under the same name :) always looking to talk about Bagginshield!


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